Garbo writes Salka

It’s dawning on me that the movie industry and New York was maybe not the right choice if one would want solitude.
I wish I was a mass-murderer from Idaho. How many must one kill? Not too many, I hope.

I always knew Central Park was square, but was not aware of its forth side. There was a sign about quiet inner peace and I went to the address. Full of people!
Never saw so many chitty-chatters in one space.
Out on the street, I hailed a cab. The driver hailed me back.

She who do my taxes told me that if I was poor and ugly, I would be left alone. Doesn’t work for poor ugly me.

Write me back. But not too soon.